The Burning Library
by Othnieltcs
Summary: A Troll Priest researches the heights of his craft in Silvermoon City and uncovers something unexpected.
1. Chapter 1

Jrinzan had to wonder what his ancestors must be thinking of him now. With his ridiculously tall stature, light blue skin, green spiky hair and rather large tusks, being a Troll meant you just did not fit in Silvermoon City. He could just see one of his ancestor spirits nudging another: _"Hey, mon, wake up. Is dat __**our**__ kin, yours and mine, what be walkin' down da Elf-street like he be ownin' da place?!"_

_ "An' him jus' be smilin', noddin' at de Elfs walkin' past. 'Specially da women, mon. Got him no shame? Don't he be knowin' how __**tasty**__ dem are? 'Specially wit' de onions an' hot spices, mon..."_

Jrinzan wiped the sweat from his brow almost before he even realized it was there. There were many atrocities his Darkspear tribe had refused to participate in that the larger Troll community, Amani _and_ Gurubashi, embraced. Unfortunately cannibalism had never been one of those, until Warchief Thrall's decree not so many years ago. There were not many Trolls in the Horde who had not resented the ban when it was first established, and even now about half the Darkspear population seemed convinced that it was only temporary.

He was not lost. He knew exactly where he was going and how to get there from where he currently was. The problem was the faint strains of music drifting from somewhere off to his left, in the city's Bazaar.

When he finally found the source of the music, he could hardly contain his excitement. Far too often in this dry, passionless place he had followed music only to find nothing but musicians. Finally, these Blood Elves were showing that they had enough intelligence to know what to do about music in the air!

Without a moment's hesitation he joined in. There were far better times to dance, of course. When he had performed an especially successful Healing, for instance, or when one of the women back home told him how long his tusks were or how his white face-paint made him look like one of the Spirits. (Flattery, after all, gets you _every_where.) But Jrinzan was a Troll, and to a Troll there is simply no such thing as a _bad_ time for a dance.

For a moment the Elf dancers all stopped and stared at him, but instead of embarrassing Jrinzan it merely encouraged him. As his moves became increasingly flashy and acrobatic, a few smatterings of applause broke out. He ended up having to drag one or two of the prettier women in the group out from the crowd before the rest of them got back to business.

Despite the odd behavior, not mention a few startled shrieks from the women he dragged out, a good time was had by all. Unfortunately the day was long over by the time Jrinzan had had enough, and more than one of the Elves retired for what was left of the night on rather wobbly legs. Jrin had lost count of the times the musicians had changed, and once he had even taken a turn at the drums, since it seemed that no one in the city was more than a beginner at them.

So it was that Jrinzan did not arrive at his intended destination until the next day. The librarian was obviously startled to see him there, but managed to act quite cheerful anyway.

"Ah, where is it you need directions to, sir? I grew up here in Silvermoon," here she giggled for no apparent reason, "so I know all the interesting places."

Although he would very much have liked to have known just what kind of place this blond, petite thing considered "interesting," he just smiled and shook his head. She did not even cringe when he smiled - perhaps her bubbly sweetness was actually genuine. "I jus' be wonderin' if you be wantin' to help me find da subject of history, ya?"

"Oh! Well, of course I will, sir, this way."

"I be thankin' ya very much, missy. You be callin' me Jrinzan, ya?"

"Very well, Jrinzan, but you must call me Serithea.

"You betcha, Serithea."

She headed off into the stacks of books. Despite the destruction of Arthas' invasion, Silvermoon's library was still a formidable size. Far larger than anything the Trolls had managed to gather yet. "Now, Jrinzan, is there a certain period of history you are seeking?"

"Place more'n time, Serithea. Da Black Morass I be lookin' for."

A delicate eyebrow was lifted, although the wide smile hardly changed at all. "Research on the Dark Portal? Quite a popular subject with students of the Arcane, that."

"I be more into da arts of da healin' powers, mon."

The Elf girl's smile seriously faltered for the first time, and she shook her head almost sadly. Jrinzan couldn't help a guilty stab of regret at causing such a mood in the vibrant young woman. "So many have tried healing the Dead Scar out there," she said, "but I doubt it will ever be the same as it was. Not for many generations, at least."

He had to admit to himself he was impressed. Putting to rest the Spirits and negative energies of places where terrible things had occured had always been the elusive pinnacle of the healing arts for his people, but he doubted many other Blood Elves would have had such insight.

"Anyway," Serithea continued as she stopped at a row of bookshelves, "this is everything we have left on the subject."

"I be thankin' ya much, missy."

If Jrinzan could bottle Serithea's laugh and sell it as a healing balm to wounded males of any race at all, he was sure he'd be able to retire rich within a year. "No need to thank me, _sir_," she said, still grinning. "It _is_ my job, after all."

Unfortunately her job was done for the moment as far as he was concerned, and he was left alone with the books. He had not been browsing the shelves for long, however, when another Blood Elf woman came to the exact same section. Apparently Serithea had not exaggerated the popularity of the subject matter. This Elf woman had dark red hair that gently curled around her neck and shoulders in seemingly endless waves. If the quality of her clothes and the amount of jewelry she wore was any indication, she was an Elf of some status in the city. Clearly she was not as young as Serithea. Jrinzan had yet to see a Blood Elf that looked anything close to _old_, but there was a stately grace and self-assurance to her presence that Serithea had decidedly lacked. The concentrating scowl on this one's face was not an expression he could ever imagine on the bubbly blonde.

He heard the woman muttering over the volumes as a phrase in one of the books caught his eye: "Blasted Lands." It made him think of angry Spirits, swirling round the Dark Portal and reveling in the destruction of Draenor...

"Strange..." the Elf woman's voice broke in on his thoughts. He looked off to his right, where a broom was sweeping up the corridors all by itself. What would an Elf think of as strange? Curiosity got the best of him, and he turned toward the red-haired woman. "Everything bein' all right witchu, missy?"

She flipped her hair back from her face and directed a stare at him that seemed only a thin cut above _hostile_. Her pouty lips tightened into an even deeper frown than she'd had before. "Vandalism," she barked at him.

For a moment Jrinzan was about to bark back that he was doing nothing of the sort, but then he noticed she was holding a book from the shelf out for him to see. On the cover were curious burn-marks that obliterated any trace of a title.

Without quite thinking about it, he snatched the book from her. Although her stance changed into one of foot-tapping impatience, she gave no other sign of protest. He examined the damaged tome's binding carefully, but found no other signs of heat or flame darkening. She was right - whatever had done this had been no accident.

"Bad mojo," he muttered, but despite his misgivings he opened the book.

"Master Antheol will have someone's head for this," the woman agreed. She went on to name a few things she would sever from the vandal's person herself that made Jrinzan quite uncomfortable. This was one woman not to be trifled with.

What made him even more uncomfortable, however, were the book's contents. Page after page of demon lore, including theories on the nature and substance of the Twisting Nether, he actually found quite interesting. Various summoning spells were more troubling, but still nothing you would not find any Warlock not only knowing but practicing regularly. The problem for Jrinzan was simply that the book did not stop there. "Tenets of the Faith" soon revealed themselves to be the beliefs demons themselves held as part of the Burning Legion. Toward the back of the book he found a detailed "recruitment ritual," whereby one can submit himself to judgement on whether or not he is "worthy" to join the "glorious crusade."

"Dis be da _bad_ voodoo," Jrinzan announced, his expression grim as he snapped the book shut. The woman he had taken it from twiddled her bejeweled fingers and it sailed through the air back into her hands, but Jrinzan hardly noticed. He began a careful check of the shelves before him for others of its kind. The gasp of outrage he heard from the woman was promptly followed by a screech that made his ears ring.

"SERITHEA!"

The little blond librarian came running, her face gaining a rosy hue as she gave a deep curtsey to the other woman. "Ailithera! Forgive me, I...did not see you come in."

"Of course you did not." The older, and apparently much more powerful, woman shook the mysterious book under Serithea's nose. "Now, what is the meaning of this?!"

Serithea's eyes widened at the scorched cover. "I...I..."

Seeing the librarian at a loss for words, Jrinzan thought a different approach might be in order. "Where da library be gettin' dat book?"

Serithea hesitated, looking back and forth between him and Ailithera, who was simply glaring at him. Finally Ailithera turned to her and nodded sharply, and Serithea's words came out in a rush. "I've never seen that book before in my life! No one here would ever accept a donation in such condition, and procedures are very clear on what should be done with anything returned to us in such..."

The woman held up one finger, and Serithea's words stopped. Immediately. Jrinzan told himself not to think less of the girl - this Ailithera did have quite a presence about her. "She speak da truth, mon."

Ailithera merely stared at the young woman. She was well aware of the empathic connection some particularly talented Healers had with other minds. Besides, it was hardly likely that the matter was so simple. Imagining Serithea as a sinister agent of the Burning Legion masterminding recruitment strategies among the Blood Elves almost made her laugh aloud.

"The question remains, was this put here simply to ensnare a curious, inexperienced mind," Ailithera made a point of not looking at Serithea as she said that, "or was it placed here for a specific individual to retrieve?"

Serithea regarded the book thoughtfully, turning it over in her hands. Curiosity radiated so strongly from her, Jrinzan thought he could smell it. To her credit, that curiosity did not dictate what she said. "It seems rather a risky method for reaching a known, specific target."

"What about specific, but not known?"

Jrinzan coughed before they could theorize themselves into a corner. Why did brilliant minds so often overlook the obvious? "You girls be movin' too fast here." Now, how many times in his life was he likely to say _that_? "How you be knowin' dis be placed anywhere? What if da Legion, dey be misplacin' it?"

"Now there is a compelling image." Ailithera's voice was heavily sarcastic, and it occurred to Jrinzan suddenly that "girl" may not be her favorite title. Her bracelets jangled as she gestured emphatically. "Archimonde or Kil'Jaeden _rooting_ through their furniture, saying 'Oh, **_where_** did I put it'!"

"Dis book not be from da Nether, I be thinkin'."

This Serithea understood perfectly. "A copy?"

Ailithera scowled. "One of many, perhaps."

"You be needin' to know what you be up against here, ya mon?"

There were many graveyards littering the pastoral landscape of Eversong Forest these days, thanks to Arthas' Scourge. The lone hooded figure approached a site full of unmarked graves on a deserted hilltop. It placed its lone candle on top of a grave marker and pulled a large book out from its robes, opening it to a page near the back.

Serithea pulled the hood of her robe back to see the pages more clearly. Nervously, she cleared her throat a few times, but when she started reciting her voice was strong and clear.

The incantations were long and complicated, and the candle's light feeble, so at first she did not even notice the portal opening in front of her before she had even finished the spell. No, _three_ portals, spaced a prudent distance from each other. A masked human in red robes stepped through the first portal, and Serithea tried not to stutter as she finished the spell.

As expected, the spell in the book did nothing more than freeze the caster into immobility. "My apologies, Elf," the Human said, as a Gnome and an Orc stepped through the other portals, also masked and wearing simple robes of red. The Human smirked at Serithea. "It will wear off soon enough. We prefer not to be forced to kill you, if you were to think this was some sort of trap and lose your head." He looked her up and down. "Yes, killing _you_ would have been a terrible shame."

_Oh my, how clever and charming you think you are._ Serithea tried to find any identifying marks, but the only thing she was sure of was that the Human had long, dark hair and a devilish goatee so over-the-top she nearly laughed. Luckily the spell had not worn off yet. The Gnome had at least had the sense to put his hood up, and she only noticed that he was clean-shaven. The Orc was smart enough to have worn not only a hood, but also a full-face mask, like the ones given out during Hallow's End. In fact, she could not be completely sure whether the Orc was even male or female.

Serithea had not been aware that she'd been straining against the spell untill she nearly fell once it wore off completely. This gave the Gnome a fit of giggles, and the Human's lips twisted momentarily into a grin. "Now," the Human said, "Can you summon your own servant yet?"

"What?"

"Your helper," the Orc growled. Definitely male.

"Your _demon_," the Gnome squealed with the glee of a child doing something his mother would never let him do.

"Oh...I...I am not a Warlock..." Serithea could _feel_ the three Warlocks in front of her growing suspicious, even before the Human frowned. "Then how..." he started.

"Tomorrow!" They stared at her impassively as Serithea told herself her voice should not sound so full of panic; of course fighting it only made it worse. "I start my training tomorrow, you know. I'm _going to be_ a Warlock, I'm just not one at the _moment_. They...uh...gave me the book as soon as I signed up...should I have waited to...um...take it?" Shut _up_, **shut up**! Even as she commanded herself, she knew it was far too late.

The three of them seemed surrounded by glowing, purplish lightning as she stammered and babbled her way into further nonsense and trouble, and only the creature that appeared, clearly from another realm of existence altogether, made the flow of words stop.

The demon the Human had summoned was tiny and seemed to fade out of sight. They waited in silence for what seemed to Serithea to be hours. Then the Imp reappeared beside its master. "Not alone," it rasped.

The Human swore, then nodded to a spot over Serithea's shoulder. "Deal with her," he said. The three Warlocks were already forming portals to escape as Serithea realized there must be a fourth directly behind her. She had only time to start turning her head before a pinprick in her side became a sea of pain. She collapsed in a heap, not even hearing her own screams.

Jrinzan did hear her screams, and the torment they conveyed tore at his soul like nothing he could ever have imagined. "We be too late, mon."

Ailithera cursed under her breath. "Not just yet...hold on to me." Under other circumstances he might have enjoyed the way she gripped him tightly against herself.

The "blink" spell was really not designed for more than one person to be trasported with, and the two of them felt quite the worse for wear after her "blink" stuttered and skipped across the necessary distance before dumping them ungracefully in the spot Ailithera had selected. She sat on the ground heavily, holding her head and muttering about never trying that again.

Jrinzan's mind, however, was still focused enough to spot the two figures by the gravesight. "Stop her!" He took his own advice and launched a brutal attack with his magic upon the female figure that remained upright. Spells designed to _give_ health required surprisingly little modifications to take health away instead.

The blast knocked the figure's mask off, exposing green skin and tusks almost as big as Jrinzan's. "Amani," Jrinzan spat as if the name for his northern, green-skinned relatives was a curse.

"My turn," Ailithera's voice said from directly behind him, and Jrinzan just had time to duck and cover his ears before a ball of fire was shrieking past him. By now the Troll Warlock had been alerted to them, however and the fireball fizzled into a few small embers as it struck her.

"Imp," Jrinzan hollered as he conjured a magical shield around Ailithera. A fiery missle from the tiny demon melted away as it struck the shield. "Take it," Ailithera ordered through gritted teeth. She spread her hands toward the Amani Troll, feeling the shield weaken under her opponent's powerful curses, and wave after wave of magical energy bolts pounded the Troll to her knees. Then the heavens seemed to open up, spewing a pillar of fire that flattened the Warlock, igniting the grass around her for several feet.

"No dead!" Jrinzan's voice came from somewhere to Ailithera's right, somewhat alarmed.

"Oh, she is not dead just yet. Besides, that is what _you_ are here for." She turned to look at him. He was holding the little demon in one hand by the neck, and a curious look on his face melted as he opened his mouth wide and stuffed the imp's head inside. Ailithera watched with stunned shock as the Darkspear priest bit the creature's head off and tossed the body aside. Almost instantly the head was spat out.

"Ptoo!" Jrinzan spat again. "Him taste even worse than week-old rat!"

The Elf turned aside to empty her stomach as the Priest hurried over to the spot where the Amani Warlock had fallen.

Just a short distance away lay the body of Serithea, still twitching in death from whatever the Troll had been doing to it. The fact that she had already been dead well before some of the things the Troll had been doing somehow made the twitches even more horrible.

"Senseless," Ailithera gasped.

"No mon, not really," Jrinzan replied wearily. "Da broken body, it be hard to restore, ya?"

The woman did her best to hide it, but Jrinzan knew she was close to tears. "What was she _thinking_? Fool girl, we told her to _wait_ until..."

"She no be heedin' da risks." Typical for her age, he should have realized when they had been planning this. Not that he was _that_ much older than she had been, but at that moment he felt ancient. He turned to the fallen Amani, hoping the short discussion had not cost him a chance to question her.

Her eyes were glazing over, and her body was a mess of burning, pulverized flesh, but he sensed a flicker of life in her. He bestowed a spell of restoration on her to fight off the lingering effects of the burns, but he knew that would only delay the inevitable for a few minutes. That should be plenty of time.

The Amani shuddered, and foam bubbled out of her lips. Jrinzan kneeled beside her and bent his tall frame down so his ears were close. "Now den, witch, where you be hidin' wit' de others?"

The dying Troll convulsed as she coughed out a laugh.

"Da book. You be makin' it where?"

Her voice was nothing more than a strained whisper. "Puh...puh...puhukssss..."

More than one. Ailithera was right about that after all.

"Where da books, mon?"

"Ufff..."

"Up?"

"Ufffuwwwuhhhh..."

"Everywhere?" Extraordinarily helpful. Well, in her condition what did he expect, a detailed and annotated list?

"Huusss..." Yes.

"Where dey be comin' from," he tried again.

"Nuhhhh...Nuuttthhhhuuwwww"

"Nether?! Dey physically come from da Twisting Nether? How dat be possible?"

"Goooooddd..."

"God? Old Gods?"

"Gaaaauuuuudddd..."

"Guard? Guard what?" He was losing her. "What be comin', mon?"

"Nuuuuuthhhh...Nuuhh...urrrghh."

That last was not any attempt to communicate. She was gone. For a moment he regretted not trying to restore her further, but he was quite sure if he had given her any amount of strength to work with she would have attempted to strike at him. Even what he had given was dangerous, since all Trolls had the natural ability to regenerate from all but the most grievous of wounds.

He was faintly startled to find Ailithera right behind him when he rose.

"Nothing." She did not ask, she stated in a flat tone. Jrinzan did not need to look at her face to know she thought he'd bungled it badly.

"We will see, mon." Something about the interrogation tugged at a memory of his, but that would have to wait. He walked over to Serithea's twisted, tortured body and kneeled beside it.

"What are you doing?"

"What I can, mon."

"But you said..."

"Shut da mouth now." Resurrection may not be possible in the body's current state. But he owed it to her to try, even if it _had_ been her own recklessness that brought her to this. Remembering her bubbly greeting to him, and that laugh that made everything seem right with the world, he knew would never forgive himself if he did not try.


	2. Epilogue

She shuffled over to the mirror, even though it had only been a minute or two since she'd left it. Her right leg dragged a bit as she walked. She clenched her hands into fists, but her left one trembled and unclenched after only a moment or two.

The face in the mirror was once beautiful, but now it drooped slightly on the left side. She tried to smile, but the left side of her mouth barely twitched. Her left eye started to look off to the side, and she was unable to bear it any longer. She turned sharply away from the mirror, but her right leg buckled under her and she fell, her head barely missing the mirror. She pounded the floor with her good fist - once, twice, three times. Then slowly, with excruciating effort, she lifted herself up and scrabbled and clawed her way back to her feet. Her frustrated sigh blew her disheveled blond hair out from her face.

"Great," she slurred, eyeing a tear in her sleeve. "Now I shall have to change."

Serithea wanted to look her best when she presented herself to the Warlock trainers on Murder Row.

The End


End file.
